


Nothing Like Stained Glass

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Lucha Underground, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Male Slash, Multi, Polyamory, Relationship(s), Supernatural Elements, Wing Grooming, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7915090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angélico’s wings are an annoyance and a wonder. His life now, with Ivelisse and Son of Havoc, is something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Like Stained Glass

 

 

 

They were fucking annoying.

 

It was like everywhere Ivelisse turned, a wing jabbed in her ribs or tripped up her feet or knocked over whatever jar or bottle she was reaching for. She knew Angélico was doing it on purpose, that stupid smirk on his stupid pretty face.

 

She cursed him out in Spanish and English. She pushed past him and his damn wings to get her own fucking space, space that the wings kept invading. Like now that she and Havoc knew about them, Angélico was using them as often as possible, reveling in how much fucking annoyance he could cause. Like he didn’t take up enough room already with his motocross bike and all the crap that came with it. Like he wasn’t enjoying this new way of annoying the shit out of her.

 

He’d claimed he’d hidden the wings before because it was a rule; no one down here was allowed to see them. Bullshit. Ivelisse had caught glimpses before, in glass. They didn’t look like they belonged to any bird Ivelisse had ever seen. They were a shadowy outline, then suddenly glossy feathers, a huge wingspan, and despite the dark color there’d always been some kind of light to them. Ivelisse’s breath had caught in her throat but then they’d gone, as swiftly as they’d appeared.

 

Angélico moved them like any other limb. He’d better not be as fucking careless with them as he was with every other part of himself in the ring.

 

He had scars, even though he had wings, even though that had to mean he was protected somehow. Ivelisse pressed her hands to his marks when she sat astride him, her skin gleaming, her thighs tight, two pairs of hands following her instructions.

 

How the fuck did he get scarred up? How did he fall? How did he hide the wings so totally? How did he make himself clumsy around her with his wings when they were supposed to mean grace?

 

“How?” she asked plainly, fingernail tracing a line of scar tissue.

 

Angélico’s expression twisted – from what Ivelisse and Havoc were doing to him or because he didn’t want to answer? Both. Ivelisse slowed like a warning and promise both and Angélico let out a protesting strained noise. It was perfect. Havoc made a deep answering sound. Ivelisse didn’t speed up.

 

“I lost…I lost, a lot,” Angélico said at last, between gasps. “Falling.”

 

Falling.

 

That was a familiar sight – Angélico making an absurd leap from way too high up. Maybe that was why he was so eager and comfortable in those moments. But why, in the first place? The original? Angélico shook his head like he couldn’t answer and there was no reluctance there, more like terror. Ivelisse had never seen it on his face before. She’d get to the bottom of that later; after he’d gotten on his knees and worshipped her. It came naturally to him, when he actually fucking listened.

 

When she next caught sight of his wings – an impossible sheen of darkness as she applied her make-up, Angélico behind her fiddling with his hair, the newly-frosted ends making him fucking vainer than ever – Angélico grinned, all terror absent, like he was fascinating, like he could do whatever the hell he liked. Like he hadn't been terrified before and she'd only imagined it.

 

“So where’s the halo?” Ivelisse demanded, refusing to be wrong-footed and refusing to doubt herself.

 

Angélico leaned in at her shoulder. Ivelisse held his gaze in the mirror, immovable.

 

“It would look so hot.” Angélico trailed ungloved fingers across Ivelisse’s collarbone. “Right here.”

 

Would it burn? Would it scar? What would it even feel like? Ivelisse didn’t drop her gaze. Angélico’s expression was superficially teasing and smirking but there was a weight beneath it. He probably thought he was hiding that but Ivelisse saw, of course she fucking did. She was queen here. No exceptions.

 

“Gold’s my color.”

 

He didn’t disagree; instead he pressed his mouth to her collar, with a need that made Ivelisse knot a hand hard in his hair.

 

She didn’t feel any wing contact. Whenever Angélico’s wings touched her – on purpose, always on purpose, no matter what he said – there was a forever flinchingly painful spark. It felt almost like a tattoo needle and Ivelisse smelled smoke.

 

*

 

Angélico was twitching. Havoc was trying to read; he was on a classics jag for now and was in thick of _The Count of Monte Cristo_. He needed all his concentration but didn’t have it because Angélico was sat by the window, wearing only a pair of really worn jeans with nothing at the knees, and he was twitching.

 

It happened sometimes. Not like when Angélico was horny and Ivelisse kept stringing him along, not letting him plunge into relief. And it wasn’t like when he needed to get on his bike and just go. Havoc knew that itch, better than he knew anything else. Instead Angélico was just staring outside, focused, longing running through it. And he was rolling his shoulders, then jerking them like something was annoying him.

 

Finally, Havoc put the book down.

 

“Look, man, just deal with the wings, okay?”

 

Angélico slanted an irritated look. “Great idea. I spent like three hours yesterday trying to hit it.”

 

“Hit what?”

 

Angélico lifted his shoulders and there was a ripple, something visually parting and literally _moving_ the very essence of what Havoc saw. Then Angélico’s wings appeared from wherever they hid themselves. Havoc had a lot of thoughts about that. It was all a question of dynamics but he doubted the designer of Angélico’s wings used the kind of techniques Havoc knew backwards from bike engines and trucks. He took a moment, like he always did, to appreciate Angélico’s wings, long and glossy-looking, like they’d be high-end if purchasable. Nothing like stained glass. It made Havoc want to grab paper and start writing down numbers and angles and watch Angélico fly.

 

Instead, he focused on what he saw – there were some seriously bent feathers, whole patches of them. Angélico’s mouth was thin and pained. What was it, like an itch he couldn’t scratch? Worse?

 

Havoc got to his feet, to get a better look, and Angélico eyed him keenly. Havoc didn’t touch, though he wanted to. There was something about the way Angélico was looking at him, like a wounded animal. It made Havoc want to gentle his hands and use his lowest register. He wasn’t used to feeling that around Angélico. Okay. He didn't back up from it, that wasn't even a thought. He took a moment to settle into the new feeling and then stepped closer, slow and careful, inspecting the feathers. The closer he got, the more aware he was of an increased sensation, like a buzz of electricity, like when Havoc was a kid and used to get too close to electric fences. That was all he could compare it to.

 

None of the feathers looked…broken, or bloody. Something eased in Havoc and he gestured lightly.

 

“Want me to try fixing that?”

 

Angélico raised an eyebrow. Havoc held his gaze, his hands open, palms up. Angélico knew Havoc was good with his hands. Angélico didn’t lose his look of ‘really?’ but jerked his head slightly to direct Havoc towards his wings. Havoc had been touched by them before, Angélico was a shit with them, using them to rib Ivelisse and Havoc at every opportunity when it was just the three of them. But this called for a kind of deliberate lengthy touch, completely opposite to the teasing stings they were both used to. A thorough vehicle inspection.

 

The sensation when Havoc finally touched the feathers was the kind of electricity he’d been expecting – stinging but satisfying and there was something else, something that made part of him hum on the inside. It was okay though, way more than manageable. But Angélico was looking at Havoc like he was expecting a nosebleed at least. Havoc raised his eyebrows; he knew Angélico saw the movement under the mask.

 

Angélico snorted but didn't tell Havoc to stop. Havoc ran fingers over a couple of rumpled feathers, correcting their position. No sounds of pain from Angélico. So Havoc kept going, adjusting feathers, stroking them straight, being firm but not abrasive. He knew how to handle delicate machinery.

 

Angélico’s breathing was noticably shaky and his hands were clenched into fists. His eyes were closed. Havoc’s fingers slowed.

 

“You good?”

 

Angélico’s head nod was slow, then his eyes slitted open and he wore an almost perfect expression of laid-back arrogant amusement, the kind that daily rankled Ivelisse and Havoc. But it was only almost perfect; Havoc could see the joins. This all meant something, Havoc helping him out like this, grooming feathers. Was this something special, way back when? Angélico never told those stories.

 

Havoc’s fingers resumed normal speed and Angélico let out a shudder. He turned his face away; everything about his posture, his body language, was suddenly vulnerable. Havoc wet his abruptly dry lips, kept quiet and made sure every feather was rearranged properly. The air seemed to have gotten more charged, like the power contained in Angélico’s wings had been amped up. Havoc didn’t stop combing his fingers through the feathers. Angélico’s breathing was breaking now and then into a choke.

 

Someone must have done this for him before, to keep his feathers right. How long had he gone without? Who had last done it for him? Havoc felt a thrum, a throttling burn.

 

When Havoc finally stopped, Angélico stayed motionless for a long moment, like he was still soaking it in. Havoc soaked in the picture Angélico made – bare-chested, eyes closed, beautiful mouth silent and composed. Havoc had done that. He could feel a different burn now.

 

Then the wings trembled and disappeared and Angélico’s head drooped further, like strings had been cut. Without thinking about it, Havoc pressed flush against Angélico. Angélico turned sideways so that he could wrap his arms around Havoc and wrangle himself under Havoc’s chin, his grip tight. That different burn was growing.

 

Havoc tugged an arm around him in return and ran his free hand through Angélico’s hair – the dark and the light. Who had ever seen him like this before? That burn again. Havoc was going to keep a stronger eye on the condition of Angélico’s wings from now on. There was more to them than buzz and flight. For once Havoc didn’t have a single itch to draw and expose that mechanical theory.

 

*

 

Angélico had flown so high before that ice had formed on the outer reaches of his wings. He’d been dusted with snow and lashed with rain. Once or twice, he’d lost feathers in flight. But he’d never once stopped flying, even when he hadn’t been able to hear the chorus anymore.

 

Maybe he’d heard snatches but he still wasn’t completely sold on them – that waterfall and that first leap from the boss’s office in the Temple. Close enough at the time. But there were other sounds and feelings now that gave Angélico a very different song to crave – Ivelisse tugging a handful of his hair, Havoc right up against him, the kiss of their skin against his wings. Multitudes.

 

They were almost always ridiculously wrong, about everything. But the slap of Ivelisse’s hand across his face, the rumble deep in Havoc’s chest. They were still right too, in all their stupid terrible gorgeous ways. Right for them, for him.

 

No absolutes anymore. Apart from swearing that he’d never be under anyone’s total control again and that had been broken by Ivelisse’s voice. He didn’t give her perfect obedience and she didn’t expect it anyway. No absolutes.

 

Some voices, he’d stopped listening out for. The pain of a fall didn’t stop when the ground arrived. He woke up sometimes, before the others, in a pain he wouldn’t ever describe, remembering things he never wanted to think about again. But he had the open road, a voice he did listen to (sometimes and she had to fight for it), and sure clever hands in his feathers. No absolutes, no regrets. Of course he still knew blessings; he wasn’t an idiot (no matter how many times Ivelisse said he was). Didn’t he have proof? Didn’t he live it? Those layers between certainties; it’d been centuries since he’d been content with anything else.

 

He didn’t think about whose plan this could be all along though, that he could be walking (flying) crooked lines mapped out for him right back when creation had just been a river bed and sky. He couldn’t. Anyway, who could ever have foreseen Ivelisse or Havoc?

 

_-the end_

 


End file.
